


Role Models

by ioanite



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:38:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ioanite/pseuds/ioanite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanks to the actions of our Navy Boys, some of the younger officers have someone to look up to...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Role Models

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cenotaph](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/35497) by idler_1814. 



> I absolutely cannot take all the credit for this fic. It was done as part of a remix challenge, and is a remix of idler_1814's "Cenotaph". That's why the fic is so light on tags; I don't want to tag it "original male character" since he's not mine.

Damn, but it was hot. Evan Fanshawe wiped at his face with the back of his hand before resuming his normal position. He’d done it so many times now that he did it almost without thinking; hands clasped behind his back, legs apart just far enough to support his weight perfectly, shoulders straight. It was something he’d picked up in his days as a young ( _Young!_ he laughed to himself, _and you’ll be at the ripe old age of forty when you reach post-captaincy, God willing)_ lieutenant. He hadn’t been trying to emulate anyone, but he’d noticed that whenever he’d been praised, he’d always stand a little straighter, hold his head a little higher. The men noticed and admired that in him, and thus, it became his default position.

“You lot, there!” he called, pointing at one of the bumboats, “Watch yourselves! That’s bloody rice you’re carrying, and if it gets wet, then we’re really in for it! Do you want to be forever remembered as the men who sank the Admiral’s flagship?”

The men in the boat looked appropriately chagrined. Fanshawe smiled slightly. “As I suspected. Now do your jobs properly or I’ll have you brought up on charges. No, I don’t care if you’re not under my command,” he barked at one of the ferrymen, who was starting to protest, “You’re currently under the Admiral’s flag, and that makes you under _his_ command. Would you rather take it up with him?”

Beside him, one of the older men smiled knowingly, nodding his approval imperceptibly. Fanshawe gave a smile in kind. “Now get a move on! There are far more competent boats awaiting their turn, and I’d rather not keep them waiting!”

The men in the boat bent over their cargo, thoroughly cowed. Fanshawe turned away and looked over the other boats, hands behind his back once more. In the old days, he’d have placed a hand to his throat, testing for soreness, but now, fully aware of how much shouting his voice could handle, he barely gave it a thought.

When he _did_ allow himself to think on it, however, he was always surprised by how much he’d changed. When he’d been a child, his voice had been high, light; had he not joined the service, his father would have had him trained as an opera singer. (In fact, what that training would have entailed was part of the reason he had gone for the service in the first place). But once he’d grown, his voice had, mercifully, deepened. What he had discovered, however, was that when he shouted, his voice became a positive growl, and a force to be reckoned with. He’d been afraid to use it, fearing that he would terrify his men, but then he’d served under Commander Bush, and heard how well _that_ man could shout, and decided to trust his instincts.

Another bumboat scraped against the side, bringing with it the sound of clinking. “Easy there, boys!” he roared reprovingly, “I don’t know if that’s rum or cannon-shot, but we don’t want it man-handled!”

Unlike the rice boat, the men here were of a more playful disposition. One of them saluted and cheerily called “Aye-aye, sir!” He nodded curtly, giving a hint of a smile.

“Going well then, sir?” One of the hands said lightly.

“Well enough, considering the layabouts captaining these bloody boats. You’d think they’d be able to get it into their heads that the sooner they unload their cargo, the sooner they can be out of the sun. Or perhaps the sun has melted their minds by now.”

“Or they’ve been drinking to take their mind off things,” the other man said pensively, “I wouldn’t blame ‘em, in this weather.”

“Neither would I,” Fanshawe acknowledged with a grin, “But let’s let that go for now. HURRY UP, YOU SWABS!” he barked at the rice boat once more. Good God, had they chosen the most incompetent fisherman in Gibraltar for this boat? The man by his side knuckled his forehead and hurried off to help unload, gathering together some of Fanshawe’s men for the purpose.

His men. _His_ men. What had he done to please the fates so? In command at last, with men he knew and trusted, under the flag one of the most famous sailors from the last great war. Oh, if only Commander Bush could see him now. “Well done, Fanshawe,” he’d have said, brusquely but warmly at the same time, “Go give old Boney a run for his money.” Never minced words, that man. You knew he always meant what he said.

Now yet another man was by his side. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but the Admiral’s come out on deck, and ‘e looks to be in a foul mood. Perhaps you should quiet yourself a little.”

“What? And let these idiots foul our supplies? I’ll take my chances. How long has he been out?”

“A good five minutes, sir.”

“If he hasn’t complained yet, I see no reason to stop. GENTLY, LADS!” he called warningly as the cargo (rum, it turned out) swung into view, “We don’t need a mob of thirsty sailors on our hands if you smash that!”

The heat, and his current frustration with the bloody rice boat, kept him from really worrying about what the Admiral thought. If asked to stop, he would have stopped, and been properly shamed. But he suspected that the Admiral would understand; rumor had it that he’d had to deal with a few rough crewmen in his time.

“Praise the Lord, you’ve finally wrapped your heads around the concept of ‘competency’!” he said, noting that the rice boat had finally unloaded its cargo, “Now be off to make way for other boats, or I’m liable to _really_ lose my temper!”

Even as he shouted the words, he felt the tug on his vocal chords that indicated that he was reaching his loudness limit. As the bumboat shot off and was replaced with a boat full of ropes and sails, Fanshawe beckoned one of his men over. “Carr, take over here for a few minutes. I need a drink.”

“Help yourself to the cargo, sir,” Carr said almost cheekily, “We’ve got plenty to spare at the moment.”

“I believe water is more suited to my needs right now, Carr. But I will take your advice under consideration.” Carr just grinned and started directing the latest boat.

Fanshawe ducked down below, where he found the water barrel. It had been moved to keep the contents a little cooler, although it still tasted slightly stagnant when he swallowed. Nevertheless, the relief his felt as it hit his stomach was absolutely worth it. Clearing his throat a few times to test the waters, he decided that he should wait a minute or two before resuming his post.

“Commander Fanshawe?” someone said behind him. Fanshawe turned around curiously to see Captain Benchley, captain of the Admiral’s flagship, standing awkwardly in the stairwell. Fanshawe saluted and straightened up. “Yes, captain?”

“Taking a well-deserved rest from this appalling heat? Good on you. We don’t need our best and brightest keeling over from exhaustion.”

 “As you say, sir.” Fanshawe said noncommittally, wondering what the real reason for Benchley’s visit was.

He didn’t have long to wait. The words tumbled out of Benchley in a rush. “Admiral Hornblower’s compliments, and would you dine with him this evening?”

This stunned Fanshawe. “Me? Why me?”

Benchley looked a bit confused himself. “I don’t rightly know. He said something about ‘tales to tell’. I’ve been invited too.”

Fanshawe smiled a little, saluting once more. “Of course. I will be happy to sit at the Admiral’s table. What time am I expected?”

“Eight bells.”

“Assuming the bumboats cooperate, I will be punctual.”

“Good, good.” Benchley said vaguely, turning around and vanishing up the stairs. Fanshawe took another drink, chuckling to himself.

Invited to dinner by Admiral Lord Hornblower, and him only a commander. Well, _that_ was quite an achievement. There had been many a night when he had been invited to Commander Bush’s table, and had been regaled with stories of Bush’s time as Hornblower’s lieutenant. Certain names had been burned into Fanshawe’s mind; _Lydia, Sutherland, Caudebec, Witch of Endor_. Listening to his commander’s tone, which rose with excitement and dropped to a conspiratorial whisper when the story demanded it, Fanshawe had grown to respect a man he’d never seen.

Well, now that man wanted to see him personally. Fanshawe straightened and ran a hand through his hair, preparing to return to the deck. Well, he would certainly go. And perhaps he would find something in Admiral Hornblower to remind him of his commander, turning the respect into something more familiar, more friendly. After all, they had a common thread—a loud, sturdy, eminently heroic thread—to bind them.


End file.
